


Harry Potter One Shots & Short Stories

by Bats_onthehorizon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual James, F/F, F/M, I'm new here and these are just one shots, M/M, Molly and Arthur are together in these, Pansexual Harry, also, but they don't have a one shot all to themselves, separately, so I put them in characters, so this is why the formatting is a little weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7840441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bats_onthehorizon/pseuds/Bats_onthehorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!<br/>Of course, I don't own any of these characters, JK Rowling owns all.<br/>Just trying to have a bit of fun!<br/>Also, this story is called "Close to Home". I didn't know how to put a title for the first chapter!</p></blockquote>





	Harry Potter One Shots & Short Stories

Once upon a time, there was a young boy by the name of Tom Riddle who sought something wherever he went.

This boy was like no other; he took pride in the fact that he was different, special. 

He was a brilliant one, this boy; a traveler and an outcast just the same, but he was brilliant. Touching. Charming. A sparkle in his eyes.

Wherever the boy would go, he would always draw the attention to himself, mostly without meaning to. People were drawn to him, intrigued by him, as though he was a mystery that not a single person could unravel. He had an aura of confidence about him, as well as mystery, and something dark, too, but after all, it was natural. 

Everywhere he went, people would stare. They would look, but they would not reach out; they would not speak to him, the boy, and what fun was overflowing with ideas and sharp remarks with no one to share them with? 

It was not fun at all, decided Riddle, and as he grew older he did not get any happier. He was not a happy child, no; a respectful one, yes, an intelligent one, indeed, but never happy. 

He would walk around his little place of resting and of eating in shabby robes, t-shirts and pants so worn and dirty that they barely hung on. He longed to see a new movie, to read a new book, but he was poor, this boy; he barely had enough food, and the people who took care of him could not do much else.

And so the boy stayed in this dwelling for eleven years, a place where he did not belong. He was getting more brilliant by the day. 

Then, one day, a man entered his house, bearing news and a smile. He was a tall man, an older one, and he had come to Tom on his eleventh birthday, where nobody had shown up. But he was not sad; or if he was, he did not show it, he did not cry.

The old man smiled at Tom, and spoke to him like an adult, like his equal. He was kind to him, and offered him a new place to stay, where he would learn everyday something new and be able to put to use what he learned, and expand his ideas and maybe find comfort. He would be well fed and he would get to travel, something the boy always enjoyed doing. 

But the man also confirmed that Tom was indeed different, and that there was no one else in the world quite like him, but that there were other people who shared a trait or two with Tom. Tom was excited, intrigued; he had not felt this way in a long time. His eyes sparkled even more so now. 

And so, of course, the young boy of only eleven said that he would come, to the new place of dwelling, to the school. The old man smiled, and said he knew that Tom would accept. 

The next time the boy saw him again was on his first day at Hogwarts, and the man smiled to him when they saw each other.  
Tom, by the end of his first day, was absolutely delighted; for the first time in his life, he had too much food, and too much to drink, and so much more to discover and look forward to. For the second time since 

He went to sleep that night and awoke the next morning with that same sparkle in his eyes. Throughout all his time at Hogwarts, it never left; except on the day of his graduation. 

Tom had a splendid time at Hogwarts, and his eyes always sparkled, though his shoes did not. He had a grand time there, he wrote in his diary, his only friend. He felt full each night and had a warm and comfy bed to sleep in. A book always in hand, a paper and pencil always nearby, he was filled, he wrote, as he never was before. He made polite conversation with the teachers and the rare student who dared to say hi in the halls, but he was still not quite happy. 

He told no one this; who was he to tell, when yet again, no one showed up to his seventeenth birthday?

And so the day of graduation came and went, and he lost the sparkle in his eyes, or maybe it was just hidden. Either way, it was not seen again, and no one but the old man who visited him six years ago spoke to him on the day after graduation. It was the very last day he would ever be at Hogwarts, the very last day he would ever see these paintings and read in the library and watch, from the window of one of the towers, the children and teenagers on the grounds, playing, laughing, smiling, hugging, while he was up there, alone in the tower, and not a single person would even look at him.

"Tom, what are you thinking?" Asked the old man, eyes curious. 

They were walking speaking in the headmasters' office — he was attending to more important matters, like making sure no one forgot anything to pack with them. 

"I'm thinking of the school, sir. I'm thinking of where I will go now, and the time I have spent here."

The old man inclined his head. "I see. I remember the first day we met, Tom, and how you were more than excited to come here. You enjoyed it here; now, I am not so sure." 

"Oh, I enjoyed it plenty here, professor. I am grateful that you extended an invitation to me to attend this school, do not be mistaken."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but waited for Dumbledore to speak first. 

"I have noticed you said that you enjoyed it here, Tom, but you have not said you are happy here, or were happy here. Why is that?"

Very quietly, Tom spoke. 

"I have enjoyed it here immensely, professor. It was the closest place to home I have ever been, and I am grateful for that. However, it is not home; it is so close to being so, this magical palace, this school. It is so close to being home, and I almost felt happy here. I have been closer to happiness than I ever have been and ever will be."

A pause.

"Why, Tom? Why is this not your home?"

Tom simply looked at Dumbledore, searching his face, trying to figure out if he really knew the answer or not. 

He stood up, and, looking straight at the man, said, in something barely a whisper,  
"I have not been loved, here. I have not been loved."

And Dumbledore simply looked at him, and did not say anything, and all Tom said was, softly, "don't say you're sorry, I know you're not. No one is. To think I could find love here was not foolish; there is love all around, here, in this school. There is love for everyone but me. It was to think that someone would love me that was foolish, Dumbledore," before turning on his heel and walking out of the room, his robes billowing behind him. 

Just as his hand was on the handle, Dumbledore spoke again. 

"I believe you to be the most brilliant child in this school, Tom, and I think highly of all the students here."

Tom did not look back, but simply said, "I will be back one day. I will come back, to this school that has been almost a home." 

And so the boy did, when he was no longer a boy, but when he was much older, and when he could not live in agony anymore, knowing that he would never be able to go back there again. 

The boy looked strangely different now, so different it was jarring. He stood in front of the school, his wand in his hand, and looked up at the building he had once thought of as something close to home.

"Hello, Hogwarts," he whispered. "You have been my only friend, my only comfort in a life of despair. Goodbye."

And then he burned that place to the ground, but still, not a single tear appeared on his face or in the corner of his eyes, and he stared at the crumbling palace as it went up in flames, the screams and pounding of footsteps drowned out by his own thoughts. 

He had burned it; after all, good things do not last forever, as when they got too good, the whole world came crumbling down, but then, maybe that's why he was trying to make himself immortal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Of course, I don't own any of these characters, JK Rowling owns all.  
> Just trying to have a bit of fun!  
> Also, this story is called "Close to Home". I didn't know how to put a title for the first chapter!


End file.
